Chapter 3
Three
Lexi
I’m hefting my bulky carry-on to the overhead bin when I hear a familiar deep and adorably scratchy voice say to the flight attendant, “Yes, this will be fine, thanks.”
I freeze and half-turn. It’s him. On my plane. At my row. I stuff down that tiny thrill. No distractions during Italy.
He reaches above my head and hoists my luggage to the compartment, then tucks his messenger bag next to it.
“Thanks. Again.”
An impatient teenager squeezes by us, forcing Mr. Curls to press into my back for a moment. He smells like . . . baseball. Clean-cut grass and leather. As pure as childhood and as manly as a uniformed player, which I would name if I knew any. I’m more of a soccer girl. Anyway, you get the point.
“Sorry,” he mumbles near my ear. “There was an aisle miscalculation, but I got your back.”
I hold in my amused snort. I have to stop laughing at everything this guy says.
He steps away, and my back feels the loss of his warmth. I slide into the middle seat and he follows, folding his long legs into the aisle spot right next to me.
Two seconds later, an elderly woman with various loose layers of clothes points to the window seat. We both stand to let her in. She makes herself comfortable with a senior’s right to claim the armrest, pulls the shade, and settles in for an eight-hour nap.
With the woman’s arm spilling across the zone line, I’m either knocking into her elbow or brushing up against this guy’s shoulder. I fold my arms across my chest and make myself as small as possible, but every time I move I make accidental contact. Or not accidental, hard to tell with me.
I open my novel. As long as I stay busy, I can ignore this man. He’s in my life ten days early.
After dinner, I settle the blanket around my legs and open my laptop. There’s always work researching venues, reviewing rental contracts, and creating branding graphics, especially with Julie headed out tomorrow on an NYC shopping trip.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my seatmate checking out my uncluttered desktop. My screen wallpaper is a stock photo of a European fountain. It’s edited to perfection, though not quite as thrilling as the view to my right.
“You’re headed to Rome too?” It was only a matter of time before he opened conversation. He’s purposeful and unhurried. And he found the one thing I can’t resist talking about.
“Yes. Italy is magical,” I gush, then clamp my mouth shut. Don’t ask why he’s going. Don’t ask anything.
“You’ve been before?” His warm voice cracks and his eyes sparkle, as if I’d admired his puppy.
“No. It’s in my blood, though.”
“You’re Italian?” He takes in my dark brown hair and gray eyes.
“No. My parents met in Italy.” A thought strikes me. “How did you know this picture was Rome?” It could be any European fountain.
“I live there. Not in Boston.” So he’s settled on an answer to my question from the airport, and for whatever reason made it complicated, it’s now also making him stiff.
He nods toward my computer screen. “Just to warn you, the Italy from most staged, filtered photos isn’t anywhere close to reality. ”
I stare at my laptop. A protective instinct kicks in at his analysis. I don’t need anyone raining on my Italy parade before I get there. “Touching up photos is called putting your best foot forward. Marketing. Finding the beauty.”
He registers my wide eyes and shifts in his seat.
When he speaks, his voice is rougher, like the unpaved section of a less-traveled road.
“Look. All I’m saying is, visitors come to famous cities with expectations, oblivious to the truth of a place.
When they arrive, they end up disillusioned with reality and then leave without a thought for the mess left behind. ”
My jaw drops. He has a moral issue with tourism? “I don’t litter.”
“That’s not the type of mess I’m talking about.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, as if there’s something bigger than a picture of Rome at stake here. I wonder why this is such an issue for him.
“Listen.” I angle toward him. “What’s your name?”
“Mark,” he offers, with zero enthusiasm.
“So, Mark, are you suggesting no one travel?” The most attractive man I’ve met in years has a fatal flaw completely misaligned with my goal, which is fine because this is not a good time for me to fall for anyone. Those things need to be scheduled in. After Italy.
“No, but touring a city doesn’t lead to knowing and understanding a place.”
I’m not going as a tourist, but the sentiment still needs defending.
“I beg to differ. I’m already well on my way.
” No one could match my level of Italian knowledge or have a more personal reason for getting Italy.
I even have the map of Rome’s city center memorized in my head.
“There are one hundred-and-thirty-five steps on the Spanish Steps. Visitors throw over a million euros into the Trevi Fountain every year. The unreinforced concrete dome in the Pantheon is the largest in the world.”
He shifts toward me, and . . . is that pity in his eyes? The nerve.
“That’s not Italy. That’s Wikipedia. Do you know the difference between how the sunshine hits the hills in June versus September?
Do you know how the Via del Corso smells early in the morning?
Do you know which day the train employees are most likely to go on strike?
” He shakes his head and takes in my cropped jeans and tailored, boatneck shirt. “Roman Holiday?”
I tug the hem of my shirt. There’s nothing wrong with a classic Audrey Hepburn style.
And it was my mom’s favorite movie—she used to say her own whirlwind romance in Rome was the flip side of Hepburn’s fated love story.
She got lucky. It’s a reminder—not that I need it—that unplanned romance on a trip is a nonstarter.
“I know it’s just fiction. I don’t expect to ride around the city with a hottie on my Vespa. ”
He gives me a knowing half-smile. “But you have lined up a Vespa rental.”
I grit my teeth. Making sure this trip goes as planned doesn’t make me a clueless tourist with unrealistic expectations. “Of course I did. It’s high tourist season and I have . . . an assignment outside the city.”
He drops back in his seat like his neck can’t hold the weight of his thoughts. “I’m sorry. I just—whatever you think this week will look like, there’s no way it will. Travel ends up bringing heartache at some point to someone.”
Heartache? I don’t know what’s happened to him that he thinks this, but it’s wrong. In normal situations, I would try to comfort his pain or understand where this warning is coming from, but this is too personal. Without travel, my parents never would have met and fallen in love. I wouldn’t exist.
I sit up straighter, twisting toward him.
“Travel brings fulfillment.” His mouth opens, but I’m not done.
I poke his arm and ignore the firm bicep under my fingertip—that isn’t the point right now, Lexi.
He’s a cynic, he’s popping my happy, optimistic balloon, and he needs schooling.
“This trip will be exactly what it needs to be for me. I have a plan.”
He’s facing me, watching me get all worked up as if I’m in charge of his bungee jump gear and he’s not convinced I’m qualified. “I hope so, but I’m telling you from experience—that’s not enough.”
Something sparks in me. I’m so sure he’s wrong, so eager to put him in his place, that the words fly out of my mouth. “Want to bet?”